By Routes Most Unusual
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: When travelling from Australia to North America during the year that never was, Martha Jones is forced to use more unusual methods of travel.


**A/N: **Just a little sketch that I came up with after a funny discussion on another site. This is my first non-crossover Doctor Who story! I've never written Martha before, so I'm still trying to find her voice, but this was quite an amusing situation to write.

Enjoy!

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**By Routes Most Unusual**

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Martha Jones had always wanted to see Australia. There was something completely entrancing about the country – the exotic wildlife, summer in December – but she'd never had the chance to travel when she was in med school. Then she'd been swept into the TARDIS and with the entire universe open to her, Australia had faded to the back of her mind. But now she was back on Earth – most likely for good – and her old longings were coming back to her. Life had been so easy. Once upon a time, she had friends who went on trips every year, and she had dreamed about travelling with them whenever she heard their stories.

She hadn't realised that her first trip to the beautiful country would be under the cover of darkness, running through the wilderness, clinging to strangers for aid, hoping and praying that she could carry out her promise without being caught. With the whole planet under the thumb of the worst oppressor any country had ever seen, every passing day provided a new challenge.

For example, travel. Who knew that getting from one place to another could be so difficult. It was worse than being stuck on the freeway during peak hour, back when cities had freeways and peak hours. Travel was near impossible – but she did it anyway. Hitching rides, plotting courses… it was practically an art form.

It was dusk. Martha was sitting under a tree on the coast of the Timor Sea, in some forest that used to be a park. Or at least, she thought it used to be a park. In every single country she had visited so far, parks had gone completely wild. Their caretakers, like everyone else, were too afraid to do their job, so the trees went untrimmed and weeds had invaded.

She really couldn't complain. Forests were just about as safe as you could get. Toclafane didn't like forests; the branches and leaves obscured their flight paths. Usually Toclafane would just slice them up – that was their standard response to things they didn't like – but forests proved to be much, _much_ more resistant than people.

Martha did wish she had better shelter, but there were no people who lived out here. They were all locked away in their houses and flats in the city, hiding in their basements, boarding up their windows. She had managed to speak to several families and passed along her message, but mostly she was ignored. A lone figure, wandering the streets.

"It would make an interesting film," she muttered, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm. She lost her gloves several weeks back; she couldn't for the life of her remember what had happened to them. She sighed and gazed out a break in the trees at the murky red sky.

_I hope he gets here soon…_

She had trekked around Australia and New Zealand. Now she had to somehow make it to North America. How she would manage it without a plane, she had no idea, but she would have to make do. North and South America were the only continents she hadn't hit yet, and she needed to get there…

The waves roared as they crashed against the sand. Martha shoved her hands into her pockets and blew out a puff of air. Her eyes closed; the waves were reminding her of those relaxation CDs you used to be able to buy. She began to nod off… surely it was just her imagination that she was sitting here under a tree in _Australia,_ waiting for a boat that would take her to her next destination… it was all in her head; she wasn't really travelling the world, spreading a story that could be the human race's last hope… no… no, it was just a dream, a crazy dream—

"Jones!"

—and there was the annoying voice, come to wake her up because she had drifted off at the hospital during her night shift, except that voice was extremely Australian… wasn't that a bit weird—?

"Martha Jones!"

Martha snapped awake. It was suddenly very, very dark – the sun had finished setting – but there was a ridiculously bright light shining in her face. She blinked and squinted, unable to see the person who had spoken, and leapt to her feet.

"What—OUCH!"

Somehow, she had forgotten about the lowest branch and had managed to neatly smack her head on it. She stumbled backwards into her pack, which had been leaning against the tree trunk, and sat down.

"Ow…"

"Are you all right?" It was a man's voice who spoke. Martha looked up, shielding her eyes from the bright light, and tried to focus.

"I just hit my head on a tree branch," she snapped. "Of _course_ I'm all right." She rubbed the back of her head and glared in the man's direction. "And you can put that torch out? You're blinding me."

"Oh, sorry." He lowered the torch, but didn't put it away. "I just wasn't sure if it was you – Martha Jones, in the flesh." In the half-light, she saw him smile. "I've heard a lot about you." He offered her a hand.

Martha took it cautiously. "Nice to meet you," she said. "And you're—?"

"Ethan Welland," he said, smiling enthusiastically. "I used to be part of the coast guard."

"Oh. Nice. Um…" Martha rubbed her head; it was still very sore. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Ethan."

"Yeah."

Martha slowly stood up. "Okay," she said. "I think I'm better now…" She took a few steps forward to test her balance. Once sure of her sense of balance, she turned to Ethan. In the torchlight, he seemed to be about the same age as her. She could just make out the scars running down one side of his face – no doubt, he had war stories of his own.

"Look," she said, "I'm sorry that I snapped at you earlier. I just can't say I've been having the best of days."

"So, you've been out here for pretty much the whole day?"

"More than that," Martha answered. She looked around, trying to spot any suspicious-looking objects that might be flying through the sky. "I left the city yesterday evening. Took a while to get out."

"I know how that can be," Ethan said. "I came by water. It can be pretty tricky trying to come ashore; you're completely out in the open."

"Right." Martha pursued her lips. "So, is the boat ready to go?"

Ethan's smile faded from his face. "Um, yeah, about that…"

"What?"

He turned away, trying to hide the strange expression on his face.

"Ethan," Martha said, "if something's happened, you can tell me. It's not like we live in a safe world anymore."

"You're not going to like this," he warned.

"I'm used to that."

"No, you don't understand," Ethan said, pulling her aside. "You are _not_ going to like this."

Martha looked at Ethan.

Ethan looked at Martha.

"Okay," she said. "I am not going to like this. Now tell me what the problem is."

Ethan handed her several stapled pieces of laminated paper in a plastic file folder.

Martha stared.

"Oh, my God…"

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Twenty minutes later, Martha and Ethan were sitting under a tree with the torch in Ethan's hand and the pages in Martha's. Martha was staring at them agog, trying to find the right kind of words to articulate her shock.

"Um," she said.

"Is that all you have to say?" Ethan asked.

"For now – yes."

"How eloquent."

Martha rolled her eyes. "Is this some kind of Aussie joke?"

Ethan shook his head. "No."

"Oh. Damn it." Martha glanced down at the paper. "So this is seriously my only way off the continent?"

"Yep."

"Bloody hell…" She felt very much like ripping the paper up and throwing it away, but her fingers insisted on clutching on to it. "Well, at least it will be interesting!"

"That makes sense. Always look on the bright side of life – no wonder you've made it this far."

Martha smiled briefly. "I don't know if I can physically do this," she said, flicking a finger at the first page.

"Do you have a choice?" Ethan said.

Martha smiled slightly. "No. None at all. I have to get to America."

"If it's any help at all," Ethan added, "I doubt they'll be expecting you to take these routes."

"_These routes?"_ she exclaimed. "These aren't routes, they're more like a complete, nonsensical mess!"

"An unexpected, nonsensical mess!" Ethan countered. "You have a compass, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you should be fine! I have complete faith in you."

"You don't know me," Martha pointed out.

"No," Ethan answered, "but I know your track record, and it is damn impressive."

Martha put her head in her hands. "I can't believe I'm actually being talked into this…"

"Hey, you're the one who said you needed to get to America," Ethan said. "If you can come up with a better plan, be my guest!"

"A real boat?" Martha suggested hopefully.

"That _is_ a real boat!"

"No, it's not!"

Ethan glared at her.

Martha waved her arms in the air. "You know what I mean!"

"Yes, I do," Ethan said. "You got here by 'real'boat, yeah?"

"Yes."

"When was that?"

"Er…" Martha paused and thought about it, counting off the days and weeks in her head. "About two months ago?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right. There are no more actual boats anymore," he added matter-of-factly, "they blew all of them up. They said they liked the fireworks."

"How… appropriate," Martha muttered. She glanced down at the stapled pages in her hands. On the first page was a detailed map of the Pacific Ocean and her route in a thick blue line. The following pages were every single direction she would ever need. Despite the ridiculousness of what the papers – and Ethan – were suggesting, she was more taken aback by the source. It wasn't every day that the people helping her used the Internet to give her a hand. Computers could be traced; it was easier to ignore it altogether than to run the risk of being caught by Internet use.

Now that was a sign of the changing times when you couldn't trust your Internet sources.

_Though, really, when could you ever truly trust the Internet?_ Martha thought, chuckling to herself.

"What's so funny?" Ethan asked. "I thought you'd already laughed out all your giggles."

"Nothing," Martha said. "It's nothing. I just thought of something funny."

"Funnier than these directions?"

Martha raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were standing by them."

"I am! I went to great lengths to get these for you! You have no idea how difficult it was—"

"And I appreciate the gesture," Martha interrupted. "Especially considering what has happened to Australia's entire supply of boats—"

"Hey," Ethan said, holding up his hands, "if you still don't believe me, I can give you all the proof you need." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small camera. He flicked it on and handed it to Martha.

Martha took it and glanced at the photos on the screen.

"Oh," she said.

"Do you see what I meant by fireworks?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I get your point." She handed the camera back. "Well, I shouldn't stand around complaining because that won't get me anywhere. Thank you for your help, Ethan, I will be on my way."

She bent down and picked up her pack, slinging it across her shoulders. She shook Ethan's hand and, plastic file folder in hand, pushed her way through the overgrown trees to the beach beyond.

The moment she set foot on the beach, the wind swept sand into her eyes.

_Great. Thanks. _

Rubbing the sand out, Martha made her way towards the shore. The sound of the waves crashing against the surf was like thunder. She stood still, looking out at the dark, dark ocean as the wind blew through her hair. For a brief moment, she felt that tingling sense of fear mixed with adventure – the same feeling she got whenever she set out on something new, something different… or whenever she had opened the TARDIS door at a new destination.

She was going to do this.

She was seriously going to do this.

She was bloody insane.

Martha giggled.

"You're laughing again!" Ethan said, slinging the torch around loosely as he stepped up beside her.

"Yeah," Martha said. "This is… I don't know what this is!" Her voice was doing that weird thing were it started going up the octave the more exhilarated she got.

"You'll be fine!" Ethan grinned. "After all the stories I've heard about you, Martha Jones, I know you'll be every kind of fine. And I stand by that, one hundred percent."

Martha nodded, sticking her hands into her pockets. "Thanks, Ethan."

"Your boat's right over there," he said, pointing down the shore.

Martha's eyes narrowed. She could just make out the boat's silhouette in the dark.

"Give me a hand?" she said, turning to Ethan and raising an eyebrow.

"Love to," he said. "This will, after all, be epic."

They hurried down the shoreline, kicking up sand as they ran. Even though they had the cover of darkness, the sooner Martha started off, the better. You could never know when one of the Toclafane would swoop down on you and extract revenge. That was the one, constant fear in life these days.

Martha and Ethan quickly secured her pack in the boat. After double-checking everything, Martha strung her directions and her compass to the bow and then she and Ethan pushed the boat out into the rolling waves.

"Good luck, Martha," Ethan said as she pulled on her lifejacket.

"Thanks," Martha said. "I hope I won't need it!" Water was lapping at their feet. She made a face – it was cold.

"It's been great knowing you—" His voice was cut off by the sound of the crashing waves. Foam flew up in their faces.

"What?"

"—I guess you need to head off now!" Ethan shouted.

Martha nodded and climbed into the boat. She secured the spraydeck around her and Ethan passed her the paddle.

"See you around, Martha," Ethan said.

"Yeah."

He shone the torchlight in her face.

Martha whacked him in the shins with the paddle.

"Ow!" Ethan hopped on one foot, spluttering and swearing. "What was that for?"

"For shining the torch in my face," Martha said. "Oh, and for giving me the most ridiculous challenge I think I've ever faced in my life."

"Oh, but it will be fantastic," Ethan countered, grinning. "If you survive—"

"Yeah, if I survive." She paused. "And if I do survive, remind me to thank Google for having the decency for putting up _kayak across the Pacific Ocean_ as the option for travelling from Australia to the United States."

With that, she plunged her paddle into the water and took off into the waves of the Timor Sea.

_fin_

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**A/N: **Okay, so, humour me. (1) Go to Google Maps. (2) Search for "Sydney Australia to Sydney Nova Scotia. (3) Pay very, very close attention to the directions. (4) Point and laugh. (5) Call it pure stupidity or pure brilliance.

So, basically, there was a discussion about the randomness of Google Maps trans-continental directions, and then my friend **DarthIshtar **said that someone should write a Martha Jones fic using Google travel directions, and then **Mar17swgirl** said that I would be the most likely person to write something like that – and after that, there was no way I could avoid the plot bunnies.

Thus, the creation of this. I hope you enjoyed!


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